


Buried In Water

by specialtrauma



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Hoe Never Gets Cold, Does Anybody Still Read Tomione?, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, I'm Bad At Summaries, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Sexy Mafia/Strip Club AU, The Author Regrets Everything, Tom Looks Nice AF In A Suit, Tom Toys With People
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-12 18:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17472302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialtrauma/pseuds/specialtrauma
Summary: -In Downtown Chicago, Hermione has stumbled into some unsavoury business. While letting people enjoy the planes of her body at ClubMystique, she comes across a mysterious character who plays a significant role in the gang that controls the strip. Soon she's the object of interest for detectives and gangsters alike, and she can't keep up with the ever-changing atmosphere of Chicago's dirty streets..Strip Club/Mafia AU/AH





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Song for this first chapter: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Buried In Water _: Dead Man's Bones__

~

_Like a lamb to the slaughter, buried in water_

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Hermione**

* * *

 

 

“Do it again.”

The words that slithered out of his mouth were anything but polite in nature. While the tone was a bit frightening, it wasn’t anything that Hermione was unused to hearing. Beefy fingers slid a ten dollar note into her underwear, patting her ass before they retreated. He was an enormous man, with an angular face cut by the neon lights that danced off the walls. He was clad in a well fitted suit, not unlike many of the other patrons in _Mystique_ \- Hermione had been told many times that patrons were not admitted into the club looking unpresentable.

Although the suit was nice, his face was undeniably ugly, and if Hermione was being honest, terrifying.

Grey whiskers sprouted from his chin, cheeks and nose- the hair on his head almost the same colour. His mouth was pulled back in an alarming snarl, revealing too many teeth. When Hermione got too close, she noticed an unpleasant odour as well. He had been in quite a few times in the past week, she considered, and each time he had come wandering to the hostess in charge and demanding ‘the girl with the hair’. It was true that her hair was her biggest money maker, as it sprung from her head in unconquered (more often than not frizzy) honey curls and it was fun to throw around on stage and let men indulge in caressing. She supposed although this man needed a breath mint, he paid good money.

That was her job at the end of the night. Dancing for dollars.

After having heard his demand, she was far too happy to be out of his lap. She jumped up and turned, surveying him as she slowly clambered onto the armchair directly opposite.

 _Mystique_ in downtown Chicago had mirrored walls, with scalloped blue curtains that hugged the frames. Neon lights hung from the ceiling, almost every colour of the rainbow, spinning around the stage and illuminating each dancer as she sauntered around the titanium stage pole. Hermione caught sight of herself in the mirrors. In her green bikini, she supposed she wasn’t too unfortunate looking. Since Hermione had hit puberty she was aware that men looked at her differently, no longer repulsed by the sight of her unkempt crimped hair and short frame. From the age of fourteen, she had grown to love her hair and curvy body in a way that no longer left her feeling awkward or uncomfortable naked.

Admitting that she was pretty however, was still out of her repertoire.

 _Mystique's_ VIP rooms usually had one or two elegant velvet armchairs that if pushed hard enough, would recline. The man sat in one of them now, surveying Hermione with a predatory stare. He lent back, tree-trunk legs spread and hands locked behind his head. Hermione could see tufts of chest hair poking out from beneath his silk button down, almost black in colour. Hermione refrained from gagging. She took her time to tease him, slowly unclipping her bikini top. She sunk down into the chair and then lifted her legs up as high as she possibly could in front of her face. Once satisfied that he had a nice view, she spread them slowly, thanking the Gods that she had been blessed with flexibility. She heard him grumbling to himself, and when she tossed her hair and crawled onto her knees, she leaned forward and arched her back. Then, she shook her ass for him with a technique Ginny liked to call the ‘bread winner’.

She heard him groan. _Thank God that’s over_.

Satisfied, she hopped up, careful not to lose her balance in her _Pleasers_ , and sauntered back over to him. He let out a gruff chuckle, unlocking his fingers from behind his head and patting his thigh. Refraining from sighing, Hermione sat on his lap. She thought for a minute that she could escape him. It wasn’t that Hermione hated her job, but there was something about big, ugly, predatory men like this that made her question if the money was really worth it.

 _Of course it is_ , she thought. _Don’t you forget_.

Usually she could have a laugh with the men, and sometimes women, that paid her to dance for them. She much preferred genuine conversation rather than indulging creepy men like this who frothed at the mouth when she bent over. Hermione tugged gently at her bikini bottoms as she was sitting, adjusting the dollars that peeked out from underneath. The last thing she needed was her hard night’s earnings slipping out. The man sighed, stroking her back with something Hermione might have taken for tenderness, if she had not been paying attention to the greedy chasms that were his eyes. “I’m going now, when are you next on?” He barked. Hermione shuddered slightly, “Tuesday,” she peeped, momentarily embarrassed that her fear of him was suddenly obvious.

Embarrassment turned to relief when the men bared his teeth in an aggressive smile, urging her up off his lap and smoothing down his suit. Was she finally free? His beefy hand snaked into his suit pocket and pulled out a cell phone, and clearly displeased at whatever was on there, he grimaced, then met her eyes and kissed her knuckles in a gentlemanly way. “Pleasure, as always,” he winked. Something in his eye remained predatory, almost violent, as he turned his back on her. Hermione watched as he made his way out between the curtains, and she let out the breath that she had been holding in.

Suddenly the surroundings of the club came crashing down on her and she was brought out of her anxiety bubble. Cigarette smoke shrouded the VIP rooms, slowly filtering out between the curtains and into the rest of the club. She took a minute to check her hair in the mirror and re-adhere her bikini top before stepping outside. Next door, she could hear Lavender giggling. The club was vibrating with heavy music, a deep bass that made Hermione’s bones shake. The bar was located parallel to the stage, against the mirrored walls. Severus was busy, serving five different customers at once- each one throwing cash into the tip jar and into Severus’ bony hands. The man was a bit weasel-looking, with a hooked nose and greasy hair that was often hanging in his dark eyes.

He wasn’t particularly nice to her, but he was damn good at his job.

Hermione watched as he mixed the alcohol, throwing shakers and chopping limes- each movement precise and calculated. He was a potion master, of sorts, when it came to alcohol. Hermione was quick to note his earplugs when they first met, and wondered how they made it easier for him to hear the orders over the music. “Can you not read lips?” he had snivelled at her when she asked. Hermione was quick to make a mental note that she wouldn’t be asking him any more questions ever.

Hermione was conscious of her mouth, barren and parched, and made her way through the fog of smoke and throngs of people towards the spiral staircase in the north eastern corner of the club. Men and women alike were draped over tables, interacting with each other, alcohol spilling out of their cups as they laughed heartily and jovially tipped their dancers. She momentarily noted that Luna was in the middle of her set, silver bikini catching lights as she sank down the pole in a carousel spin. She noted the pleasant look on her face as she stared up at the ceiling, almost ignorant of the adoring and guffawing men that were at the edge of the stage. _Luna had always been in her own little world..._

The stairs were illuminated with magenta LED’s that transformed her clear heels pink as she rushed up towards the change room. Apart from Luna, it seemed that all the other girls on tonight had been taking advantage of the large amount of customers, stealing them away for private dances. From the top of the stairs, Hermione stared at the enormous chandelier that dangled from the ceiling, a direct low-lit reflection in each mirror surrounding the club’s interior.

Slowly, the music’s deafening _‘unsk’_ sounds began dulling, and Hermione was finally in her safe haven for the busy Saturday night.

The change room was a small room with high ceilings above the club’s DJ booth, vanities with crusty old mirrors squished in beside each other against the walls and were covered in hair straighteners, rubber bands, moist toilettes and various bits and pieces of make up. Hermione’s was situated in between Ginny’s and Lavender’s. She avoided running into a girl that was being called down for her set, finally sinking onto her bar stool and taking a long sip of water. “Someone’s happy,” the fiery redhead beside her was in the middle of applying a fresh coat of mascara. The sarcasm contained a hint of mirth, and Hermione couldn’t stop the eye roll.

There was a snort. “I could hear the minute you walked in, by just your breathing, that something was wrong. Poor Hermione getting booked for dances, what a travesty,” Ginny teased, “was he at least generous?” Ginny was a gorgeous catch, a bit gangly- but gorgeous nonetheless. Her hazel eyes sparked when she talked, almost animatedly, and her face and body were dusted with brown freckles. She was not only beautiful, but confident and alluring- fiercer than anyone Hermione had ever met. Hermione pulled out the bills from her bikini bottoms, noting the various fifties with wide eyes.

Ginny stared at them through the mirror. “You officially have no right to complain,” she mused, “that’s unreal- there’s a million people here tonight and I’ve gotten nothing,”

Hermione huffed, “I have, believe it or not, been working for two more hours than you. Also, that man’s breath smelled like garbage. I would rather you than me.” Ginny laughed, then she revelled in a fake sob, almost smudging the wet mascara. “If you think I’m bad, you haven’t seen Lavender tonight clearly,” Ginny put her mascara on her vanity before spinning around to face Hermione on her stool. “I heard her before I started, she saw Fleur and instantly got upset.” Fleur was known to be one of the high rollers at _Mystique_ , often showing up around one in the morning once a week, _Louis_ purse hanging from her delicate shoulder, ready to make her month’s rent in one night.

There was something almost bewildering about her looks, something inhuman that made her appeal to most of the men and women that walked through the doors to Mystique. She had a sloped button nose, and shoulder length blonde hair that wreathed her face, eyes an alarming shade of periwinkle that you couldn’t help being captivated. “If I made as much as Lavender did, I would feel the same,” Ginny said honestly. Hermione couldn’t stop the pearls of laughter that bubbled up in her throat, but recovered quickly and shot her friend a judgemental warning look, “that is horrible of you to say,” she said, holding in the laughs. Something about it was so brutally analytical and true that Hermione felt guilty just for hearing it.

Lavender was one of the newer girls, and had a habit of scaring customers away with her eagerness. There was a subtle art to hustling, and she hadn’t quite mastered it. Instead of taking Ginny’s advice on starting conversations rather than walk up to someone and demand they book her, she had huffed and puffed and now spent most of her nights at the bar, waiting for someone to approach her first. Unfortunately for her, that wasn’t how the business worked, and it was a hard lesson to learn. Hermione had been there.

“Just keeping it real,” Ginny sighed, “I’m going on soon- want to come with?” Hermione nodded dumbly, thinking about the beast of a man she had been entertaining for the week. “This man was awfully scary,” she said more to herself than to Ginny, “I haven’t had someone like that before.” Ginny cleared her throat, spraying herself in a mist of raspberry perfume. “There’ve been a few interesting faces the past month or so,” she admitted, and Hermione couldn’t help but agree, “but no one worth worrying about. Could be management branching out, I suppose...,” her voice was almost a whisper. It wasn’t common for the girls to talk so openly about the recent change in management of their club. 

Hermione, never once in her twenty-four years of life, dreamed she’d ever be dancing as a stripper.

Two years ago, a major in English Literature and an impressive Valedictorian speech hadn’t done Hermione any favours upon graduation from University, and so desperate for any sort of revenue, she found herself wandering in downtown Chicago carrying her last fifteen dollars and determined to turn her life around before it was too late. It was then she came across a tall, rust-coloured building- with a neon blue sign that lit up Hermione’s brown eyes. _Mystique._ A rather severe-looking woman had taken her in as a hostess at first, however after Hermione had seen the absolute wads of cash her female counterparts were earning, she couldn’t help but asking the pixie-like girl with the dreamy, marijuana-high eyes about pole lessons. Luna had been more than accommodating of Hermione’s awkward Bambi legs while teaching her to climb and spin, and after seeing Hermione’s potential, McGonagall suggested with a wry smile that Hermione audition at the next open night.

Originally, Hermione had intentions the position would just be for a few months, until she got back on her feet. Although, in the time spent dancing, Hermione had made countless friends and, surprisingly, _enjoyed herself_. Life was good for a while enjoying life on the luxe side, and Hermione had even managed to tackle some student loans that had been causing her grief.

Then last summer came.

Ginny had rung her on the day, her usually witty and confident demeanour absolutely crushed with uncertainty. The club had been bought out from McGonagall by someone called Grindelwald, Ginny had said. Hermione hadn’t had the pleasure, but Ginny didn’t really illustrate him a winner. The morning edition of the local paper hadn’t either, Hermione reminisced. She remembered staying awake for hours on end until the street lights outside her window dimmed and pale sunlight filtered through her window blinds, trying not to think about what the journalists had doted on.

The more she read, the more she learnt about her club’s newest owner. He was a German aristocrat, noted for throwing elaborate parties, having relocated to the U.S shortly before the Cold War and quickly making a name for himself in the business of oil, leather-goods and machinery. The paper didn’t hide the fact that the man was suspected of dodgy business, and had been under scrutiny from detectives. _Suspect of counterfeiting, coercion, fraud, armed robbery and murder takes over management of Chicago’s oldest gentleman’s club._

The words looped in her head, refusing to dissipate even after Hermione threw her nose in _Brave New World_ and tried to distract herself. Despite the uncertainty of the club’s fate, when Hermione had turned up to work that weekend, she was surprised to find it had been virtually untouched, spare the employment of Severus, and the giant security guard with a wild mane of black hair and a beard to match (Hagrid, Hermione remembered). Life had continued, but never had the girls openly addressed the suspicions surrounding the new owner. Little things Hermione observed, such as the ominous wads of cash that were regularly exchanged between patrons, remained the elephant in the room when talking with Ginny or Luna.

However, nobody Hermione had encountered since had been nearly as dreadful and terrifying as the man she’d just given a dance to. “Well, if it _is_ a management issue," she started,"I don’t think I’ll be entertaining him much longer,” Hermione admitted, counting her money and tucking it away safely in the cash box on her vanity, “I have no doubt he earns his money in _interesting_ ways,” she thought about the murderous look in his eyes. Ginny raised her eyebrows, “You’re sure?” Hermione’s mouth set itself in a tight line, “No. But he scared me enough. I’d rather avoid getting myself involved in any kind of dirty business.”

-

Lee, The DJ, announced Ginny’s stage time, and she left her empty glass forgotten at the bar where she had been making conversation with a rather bored-looking Severus. Hermione watched from her position seated at a table as Ginny easily hiked herself up the spinning pole, adjusting into an easy reverse superman and dangling her flaming locks in mid-air. Something by _The Clash_ was playing overhead, filling the room with a distinct buzz with each explosive strum of the guitar.

Two young boys near the stage slapped their pockets for cash, scrambling to find something that would encourage Ginny to get naked. One of them, a boy with electric green eyes and a scruff of unruly black hair, managed to retrieve an array of crumbled dollar bills and wiggled a finger at Ginny, whom by this point was well aware she was about to earn some cash. Hermione watched the exchange, her hand pooled around a glass of lemon water. Condensation dripped down towards her fingertips as she took her finishing swig, the man at her left increasingly pleased she had finished the drink he’d treated her to.

At the bar, Hermione had specifically mouthed to Severus that she wanted ‘water only’, after the boy at her side had taken it upon himself to order her a vodka soda. Severus had given her a sharp roll of his eyes, before wordlessly handing her drink to her and disappearing to tend to other customers. _Serves him right for being smart with me_ , she'd smiled. “I don’t have much money left, I’m afraid, but I’d love to chat,” the boy told her over the heavy beat of the drums. Hermione couldn’t help the eye roll. The boy had spent nearly all of his money on alcohol, the remnants of which littered the table they shared, and he had only left Hermione with a measly ten dollars and a pathetic boob grab.

When he had approached her at the bar just half an hour earlier, Ginny had given her a look over the edge of her glass as she downed the rest of her drink. One that clearly had been in her position many times. One that once again reminded her that time was precious, that time was money. _She shouldn’t have accepted the drink_ , she sighed internally.

Now, bored, she sat with him and watched as Ginny motor boated the excited black haired boy, her black bikini top forgotten at her feet. She was just about to leave the table, excuses conjured up in her mind already, when she saw them.

She spotted them on an extravagant leather lounge, across on the other side of the main stage. That corner of the club, Hermione knew, was often occupied by the lonely businessmen with too much money to spend and not enough girls to throw it on. However, Hermione got the impression that these men were anything but lonely. There was an air about them that seemed content to be left to discuss business in peace. One of the hostesses, Angelina, usually made rounds through the club’s crowds to take empty glasses and butter up the thick-wallet ballers with compliments. This was a good time to make tips, of course.

However, Hermione watched as the tall black girl walked towards them, leaving two fresh drinks for the men shrouded in cigar smoke and darkness, and stealing away their empty glasses before anybody could thank her. Hermione made them out in the shadows each time a blue overhead light spun in their direction. One, with fierce blonde facial hair and a matching mop, had been leaning forward, his elbows placed on his knees, a cigar dangling loosely from his left hand as he shook it at the other man. The man to his left was seated with his back leaning against the sofa, his right arm draped over the back and his left knee crossed over his right. His long blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, his face cleanly shaven and more polished than even _Fleur’s_. He seemed to be in a disagreement with the bearded man, who with each wave of his hand, was flicking ash into his new drink. He took a deep swig from it nonetheless, clearly oblivious, and Hermione gawked.

_Surely he can taste that, right?_

The ponytailed man had his thick, well-groomed eyebrows raised incredulously, his thin mouth pursed. Hermione’s mind wandered back to the conversation she had been having with Ginny an hour ago. _Were these people...? Were they...?_

Before she could think further, she watched as the bearded man removed his wallet from his back pocket, his expensive suit jacket opening slight and revealing… Hermione felt a lump in her throat. A well-oiled pistol lay snug in a holster at the man’s waist. Had Hagrid even patted these men down?

“Thanks for that one, Ginny… ah, folks, lovely as always isn’t she? Now we have on, for the two a.m. slot, Miss _Hermioneeee_ ….” Lee drawled her name out, long and sultry, finishing with a scratch of the music and replacing _The Clash_ with something a bit more suited to Hermione’s style.

Hermione was disturbed from her thoughts, dragging her disbelieving eyes away from the two men, and immediately stood up on albeit shaky limbs. She was overreacting, surely, and if she pretended she hadn’t noticed she was sure she could go about her night regularly…

Ginny passed her on her way up to the stage, sweat clinging to her décolleté and knickers stuffed to the brim with notes. She had left behind the smitten green-eyed boy without another thought. “Good luck, you,” she whispered, sneaking off to the bathroom and ignoring the green-eyed boy that had begun chasing her through throngs of people. Hermione held back a laugh, she might have to talk to security about that one…

Stepping up on stage, Hermione surveyed the club in her peripheral. The young boys had disappeared after Ginny, but several loners had slowly appeared in Hermione’s line of sight against the rim of the stage. She sauntered around the pole, considering the legalities of what she had thought she just witnessed. _Had Hagrid ignored it? Were the rumours true? Had Grindelwald, the club’s newest owner, been operating dirty business in the club?_

Now the mysterious cash bundles and hushed whispered seemed less like an elephant in the room, and more like something to finally discuss with the other girls.

When Hermione shoulder mounted the pole, the neon lights changing from blue to green, she adjusted her grip and slipped into an inside leg hang. She arched her back, slowing down her momentum to the absolute slowest she could manage in this position. While spinning, Hermione noticed a few shapes moving in the entranceway to the club, bathed in shadows. That certainly caught her attention, and without trying to make it obvious she was watching, she cross ankle released, and gently sunk towards the stage floor.

There were three of them, she counted. Hagrid had welcomed them with a bit of a bear hug- patting each one on the back and welcoming them inside with a bit of a forced friendliness. Hermione heard a coo to her left and crawled with a smile, eyes on the prize that materialised in front of her. Though her face was facing the elderly man in front of her holding the crumpled twenty, Hermione’s attention was very much focused on the business lounge, where the men were heading.

The three men walked in almost perfect symmetry, single file. The one at the back, she noticed, was carrying a leather brief case. He had a bit of a coiffed hairstyle, his black hair sticking to his forehead and looking far too gelled for her liking. In front of him, was the oldest one clearly, with a face covered in fierce rust-brown facial hair, and eyes of grey steel. He had his hands swinging freely beside him, against a suit that looked no less than the price of Hermione’s entire apartment. In fact, all three of them were dressed to excellence.

The leader, Hermione found with a bit of a gasp, had captured her the most.

While she moved for the elderly man in front of her without much vigour (attention almost wholly focused on the suspicious men, mind you), she couldn’t help admiring.

While the other suits were navy or blue in nature, this one was a pressed grey _Versace_. It’s owner, taller than all of them, walked with a purpose that had everybody in front of him immediately rushing to evacuate his path. One hand tucked into his pocket, his other hand tapped on his broad chest, as though it were the most casual thing in the world to walk into a club at two in the morning with a _brief case_. The two behind were shooting girls around them enamoured looks, dirty smiles creeping onto their faces.

This one though, was absolutely unbothered by anybody.

Hermione did her deed for the old man, recovering herself and made her way back up the pole, the twenty now safely tucked away. She climbed into a figurehead, only able to make out an absolutely razor-sharp jaw before the men sat down amongst the two blonde men whom had been arguing earlier, and vanished from sight behind the crowd. She turned her attention back to the people around her. _Oh well,_ she thought. _Not your problem, Hermione_. Before she could think of another trick to perform in her small repertoire, she noticed two men come sauntering over to the stage from the business lounge.

The gel and the grey eyes, after disposing of the suitcase, had turned their attention to the entertainment of the evening.

Hermione didn’t pay them much attention after throwing them a winning smile, though. She was more focused on their leader, whom had appeared after a group of crowding people left. He was in a deep discussion with the two blonde arguers, his hands now in his pocket. Something they said had caused him to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Over here, you absolute _gem!_ ” Grey eyes called out, making it to her side and tapping a thick wallet onto the stage, winning smile shining in his rusty beard. The gelled man beside him sent her a smile too, though one that wasn’t nearly as nice or as friendly. “Come here, sweetheart…” he drawled. Hermione slinked up to them, sitting on the side of the stage and shooting them a tight-lipped smile. She was a little suspicious, but once she saw the wallet, she couldn’t help but _try_ to leave her worries in the deep depths of her mind. If the rumours were true and she was dealing with some fishy people, she may as well enjoy a bit of money, right?

“Hey, gentleman,” her voice rung above the loud music. When the nice one opened up his wallet and left a hundred-dollar bill sitting in front of her, Hermione couldn’t help her eyes bugging out of her skull. He seemed to notice, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. “What can _this_ get me?” he asked, the other one snickering beside him in an ugly way. Hermione kneeled in front of them, and had just clipped open her bikini top, hands in her thick hair routinely when-

“Rosier,” it was a voice that had materialised behind the nice man.

The rusty bearded man’s face fell slightly. The voice was deep and pleasant to listen to, sending a bit of an excitable shudder between Hermione’s shoulder blades and down the rest of her back. _What-?_

The bill lay forgotten in front of her as her hands gripped for life on the side of her neck, in the midst of stopping her tease. _What is going on?_

The voice had stepped out from behind ‘Rosier’, the nice one. It was the trio’s leader. His _Versace_ suit clung to him in a delicious way, snaking down his torso and towards his midline and legs. He tapped a foot, appearing impatient- though his face remained serene, and if he was bothered, it certainly didn’t show. Hermione was left to just observe the attractive contours of his angular face as he mumbled with the two men in front of her,  _had she heard 'Greyback?',_ his blue eyes never once leaving hers.

She stared dumbly, taking in his dark brown and slightly tousled hair, as if he had just run his hands through it. His effervescent pale skin glowed under the neon’s in front of her. This man was perhaps the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. Yet, there was something deep in his eyes that made her want to squirm out of his way. She felt as if he were staring right through her, as if she wasn’t really here at all- as if she didn’t exist. _Should she be afraid?_   She swallowed thickly.

Turning to move on to the next customer and dropping her gaze from his, the man’s hand shot out faster than she could witness, and grabbed a hold of the bill. For a minute, red-hot rage seared in her stomach, and she allowed it to reach her eyes. She cleared her throat loudly and shot daggers, anxiety completely forgotten. _How dare he?_

But he didn’t pocket the money like she expected.

He crept forward, turning the bill over and over again in his fingers, one hand still tucked away in his suit pocket. Never leaving her eyes, he lent forward. Hermione suddenly felt very, very naked. Now hyper-aware of the fact her tits were on show, her cheeks stung with warmth and she knew her face was as red as Ginny’s hair. It wasn’t abnormal, for her to be nude at work, but something about this man set Hermione’s toes curling in both positive _and_ negative ways. Despite the fact her nipples had begun to harden slightly, and the others around them had taken advantage of the fact Hermione had taken her top off, throwing dollars in her direction, this man’s eyes never ventured south of her face.

His hand got closer, and at this point, the two men he had startled had departed back to the business lounge grumbling to themselves. The bill gently scraped the flesh of her abdomen as he tucked it down the front of her bikini bottoms, a gentle smile on his mouth. His fingers didn’t linger like other customers, rather the feeling of him touching her had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Hermione with a peculiar feeling of wanting him to do it again. She gawked at him, completely at a loss for words. _What an absolutely, infuriatingly, captivating individual..._

Her voice came back suddenly, “Thank you,” she sniffed, not caring if she sounded polite. She moved to stand up and attack her current bikini situation. “Enjoy your night, Miss,” he said, nothing short of polite. _There it was, that voice._ She gave him a tight-lipped smile, and refused to acknowledge the knobbly knees he had just given her. He didn't spare her another moment, turning away from the stage and checking a pocket watch. As he removed the silver watch from his pocket, his jacket opened slightly, and Hermione stared as she spotted the glossy pistol tucked away at his hip.

A lump formed in Hermione’s throat and she suddenly very much wanted to go discuss the night’s events with Ginny and Luna.

Now, feeling rather odd about the whole exchange, she looked down at her bikini bottoms. Not one, but _two_ hundreds were now tucked away for her keeping.

 

\--

 

So...

 

If this is even remotely worth continuing please let me know. Why was there a suspicious meeting? What does it have to do with Grindelwald? Will we find out?!

I don't know who anybody looks like from Tom's era, okay? Or their ages. I guessed- sorry for any inconsistencies.

If you go into this slight-crack fic not expecting anything great, I would be happy- better to over-deliver than under-promise in my opinion!

A bit of an irritatingly-hot sexual tension journey with lots of consequences and danger I'm afraid- but that's what fuels me!

(It’s been a little while since I danced, so please excuse any inconsistencies in terms of tipping- Hermione dances at a prestigious club, if you will, so blame it on that!)

 

Please let me know what you think, regardless if you enjoyed it or not.


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of your comments and kudos! I am over the moon that you've enjoyed the first chapter. Hopefully I do Tom justice, I've written him in the way I envision him: calculating, meticulous and a bit self-absorbed.. Also the differing POV's from the end of the first chapter.  
> Let me know what you think! x

~

_Like a lamb to the slaughter, buried in water_

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Tom**

* * *

 

 

Albeit a little stupidly courageous and thick-headed, Tom’s men hadn't displeased him thus far.

In the two years he has spent under Grindelwald's wing, leading the men whom appraised him dearly, the four collectively had followed instructions promptly and without much protest. It made his chest swell with an emotion that wasn't necessarily gratitude.. but something that Tom understood to be satisfaction. 

Dolohov, the snivelling one whom Tom wasn't particularly fond of, was in front of him. He had asked no questions before tightly securing the struggling elder man by his arms. The man was pulled flush against his own cream sofa, spluttering and coughing with each blow that Rosier delivered to his face. Rosier had started this after a prompted look from Tom, of course. This was a routine visit, something they were used to attending to in the case of intimidating slippery individuals. It had never been hard to strike fear into the hearts of other men, but having support from men who followed him blindly was most pleasing. Brass knuckle dusters sat almost comfortably on Rosier's fingers, cutting into the man’s flesh and sending a ruby shower across the living room with each blow. Tom noted with disinterest that blood was running freely onto the carpet, which had been an identical colour to the sofa. Now it was soaked, puddles of blood having tainted it. 

They had come in shortly after twelve thirty in the morning, sneaking up the delicatessen stairs and arriving at his front door, promptly hammering it down and dragging Mr. Ollivander out of bed. Ollivander, clad in his night gown and donning embarrassingly fluffy slippers, had been terribly nervous to see them so late- and Tom had absolutely _no doubt_ why. 

His business sat on the corner of one of the busiest streets in Downtown Chicago, a street regularly stalked by Tom and his men for any weak links to destroy, any potential business partners to intimidate. Making money was a business, something Tom was good at. Everybody went to Ollivander's delicatessen, and Tom had seen it as a potentially rewarding investment. It wasn’t hard to convince him. Tom had simply turned on the charm, explained that his men could put a stop to the pick-pockets that had taken to thieving his goods, in return for a fair percentage of his revenue. "A service for a service, if you would," the words were silky coming out of his mouth, and he knew that there was no way Ollivander was going to refuse. That was almost a year ago, and Ollivander had been perfectly happy to welcome Tom and his men into his shop with promises of a partnership, albeit a bit nervously.

Lately, Tom had noticed that he wasn’t being _particularly_ honest about how much he was earning. That was going to be a problem. Tom had done the math, had flattered the teenage cashier with a wink and unspoken promises of attention if the gawky girl could tell him why she was taking money out of the till and not recording a clearance. His suspicions had been right. 

“Don't lie to me, Ollivander,” Tom spoke almost monotonously, surveying the contents of his living room while his hands dug into his pocket for a cigarette, “if you just tell us why, we’d be happy to make your night a little less-” he paused, scraping his brain for the right word, “-uncomfortable.” He glanced down at his shoes, which had been blessed with a dusting of fresh blood thanks to a particularly violent punch from Rosier. Tom grimaced, shooting his friend a look. Rosier looked sheepish at first, but sent him a coy smile and laughed it off with another right hook. Tom toyed the cigarette between his fingers, ignoring the chokes and cries from the beaten man and instead focusing his attention on the sound of the bats hanging from the powerlines outside Ollivander's window. 

Tapping his foot, a force of unconscious habit for him when in frustrating situations, Tom gently brought the cigarette up to his mouth and ignited the end with a ‘ _click’_ of his lighter, the pleasant wafts of tobacco calming him significantly. The business had rather dulled his attentiveness, and instead of being repulsed when a tooth was knocked freely from Ollivander's mouth, Tom shut his eyes and took the time to enjoy his cigarette. Soon, he'd be home, and not on another late-night visit at the request from his superior. These visits had grown rather tiresome, and Grindelwald had only grown more and more impatient with those he dealt in business with- sending Tom out with anybody that was willing to accompany him. It's not that Tom didn't enjoy exerting power, but four nights in a row was a bit excessive, even for him. 

When enough was enough, his eyes taking in the limp bloodied mess in front of him, he held a hand up. Rosier stopped the assault, almost immediately. Clearing his throat, he removed his dusters and adjusted the silver tie at his throat, as if he needed to be presentable after such a harrowing act. Dolohov promptly shoved the man onto the living room floor, cream carpet smearing as Ollivander knelt against the sofa in shock. Tom breathed in the poisonous fumes, and crouched down, frighteningly slowly exhaling the smoke into Ollivander's face. “I thought we were great partners, Ollivander. You’ve certainly made me very unhappy,” he remarked softly, but honestly. With each word, he reeled the man in with a false sense of security- Tom was good at that. He sounded hopeful, almost as if he was going to forgive Ollivander and apologise for the assault provided that he made his payments in the future.

Not the case, but he wasn’t going to get what he wanted with being brutish. He'd realised that soon after commencing Grindelwald's work, absolutely pummelling a man to breaking point. Then, frustratingly, his lips wouldn't budge- and Tom found himself caving his brain in with his boot before he could think. There wasn't much to extract from a dead man, and Tom had learned that his persuasion was a _lot_ more practical. 

Ollivander's lip trembled under Tom’s unwavering stare. _Almost caught him_ , Tom thought. Ever so slowly, he removed the cigarette from his mouth and offered it to Ollivander, eyebrow quirking as if to say ‘help yourself’. Ollivander raised a trembling hand, securing the cigarette between bony fingers and then he _breathed_ in the tobacco like his life depended on it. Tom smiled like the devil. _Hook, line and sinker._ Feigning regret on his handsome face, Tom awaited the explanation he knew would be surely coming.  

“I’m sorry, Riddle, I-I really am-" _Here it was_ , "The other man has been coming around. The big, hairy one. I’ve been offering him some, if he leaves me alone,” he muttered, voice croaky and crumbling further with each word, Tom feigning understanding with a knitted brow. “That’s where the extra earnings are going, I’m not holding onto them- I-I promise," the inferior man squeaked. 

Outside, Tom was the ever-polite businessman. Inside, he was fuming. He _knew_ who was responsible, but he tried not to ruin the trusting demeanour he had been conjuring up for old Ollivander. Now, instead of heading home and smoking himself into oblivion, he'd be dealing with another issue. Tom reached out to grab a hold of Ollivander’s shoulder, as if he was comforting a friend. His hand was gentle, but with each breath, he found that he was gripping him a little bit tighter than he initially wanted to. “Who was it?” he asked, hating that Ollivander had noticed his harsh grip and was squirming under his gaze. 

“G-Greyback,” Ollivander cried, fresh tears pooling in his pale eyes.

The man, Fenrir Greyback, had been a thorn in Tom’s side for as long as the former had been employed under Grindelwald. Tom’s responsibilities were simple: business, taking care of squealers, and organising the imports. After Grindelwald had acquired Greyback's services, the huge _animal_ of a man didn’t immediately take a liking to Tom (upsetting Tom immensely). To top it off, in complete disbelief, Tom was informed that Greyback already knew about their high-level business. It was something Tom had worked incredibly hard for when he was first employed, and this infuriated him. 

The squealers had been transferred from Tom’s responsibility to Greyback’s, which not only bothered Tom, but Greyback _noticed it._  His eyes, ever-knowing, had bored into Tom’s and he smiled that sickening smile full of sharp teeth and lingering foul breath, Grindelwald completely oblivious to the absolute carnage and death that his new hitman craved. Tom, always polite in the presence of authority, never once revealed his disapproval to his superior. Although it caused him immense displeasure, to have to shake the man's hand and congratulate him for a job Tom had always enjoyed, he grit his teeth and allowed it. For now, at least. He was planning to deal with the situation, but it wasn't the right time. He wasn't ready yet. 

Usually, when he was in charge of dealing with the squealers, he was careful and precise- staging deaths in a way that weren’t identical, or similar in nature. The last thing he wanted was people sniffing around in his business, or asking questions- Tom had no intention of the police catching on to Grindelwald's dirty work. He planted evidence to suggest motive, or to blame others. Nothing more, nothing less. He wasn't sloppy, he was clean cut- in a way that would have surprised their enemies had they survived him. 

Greyback, however, hadn’t been careful in the slightest.

The police had caught on to his string of violent murders, all in rapid succession of one another and unnecessarily obvious. Broad daylight, witnesses. Does he need say more, for Christ's sake?

Now, the Commissioner’s attention was annoyingly focused on Grindelwald and his ever-reaching grasp over Chicago.

_“We have suspicions on who the culprit behind these murders is, and will be acting accordingly.”_

Shacklebolt spoke confidently in front of the press, and Tom hated that he had any suspicion at _all_. It was beyond hindering having to clean up after Greyback. It was _belittling_. 

“What should we do with him, Riddle?” it was Dolohov, still perched behind the sofa and eyeing the scene in front of them, sneer plain as day on his face. Tom pursed his lips, running a hand through his hair exasperatedly. He couldn’t dispose of him, Ollivander _had_ previously shown to be faithful to their business and although he had slipped up, he could prove useful yet in Tom's plan. The plan that he had yet to tell his men about. 

Yes, he would be spared this once. Tom could be merciful, every once in a while. 

“Leave him,” he said authoritatively, eyes sweeping over the pathetic lump of tears in front of him. He sighed internally, standing up from his crouch and catching Ollivander’s eyes. “We’ll be off with what is _owed_ ,” he stressed, “but I need you to promise me, Ollivander” now whispering, he threw in a dazzling smile for good measure, “that you won’t be dealing with Mr. Greyback again.”

 

\--

 

Ollivander had been sent back to bed after unlocking the door to his safe. He was sniffling and apologising profusely, one hand clutching at his bloodied nose and the other grasping at Tom's lapels. It disgusted him how desperate he was to please him, to change his mind, to make him think that after his secret had been revealed- it wasn't _him_ that had broken their contract. Rosier had been quick to fill one of Ollivander’s personal brief cases with rolls and rolls of green bills, not bothering to count and instead filling the case until it bulged at the seams when closed. 

Although he had achieved what he had set out for, Tom was displeased.

Greyback, forcing one of their most loyal partners, to pay _him?_ What on Earth for?  
  
“The Malfoy’s are on their way to _Mystique_ ,” Dolohov drawled, nose poking around the candies in front of Ollivander’s cash register.  _Mystique_  had proven to be a popular spot for the Malfoy's, and the other men in Tom’s circle, there was no doubt- but Tom had never been particularly interested. He enjoyed looking, and more often than not was subject to countless invitations from the dancers, but he couldn't justify spending his free time among his colleagues. He picked up his team's slack, forgiving but never forgetting, allowing them their fun for now. He needed their trust, after all. It was while repressing a huff of annoyance, that Tom realised why they were heading to the seedy club. Abraxas, ever sharper than his bore of a brother Lucius, had his brilliant ideas occasionally. 

Greyback had taken to visiting the club during his nights off. He remembered the brute showing his face late at almost every late meeting Tom had called that week- stinking of vanilla and bergamot, eyes positively full of swimming, sexual thoughts and his crumpled, silk shirts. Grindelwald was happy that his businesses were being enjoyed, ever so lenient when it came to his beloved, carnivorous animal. Tom hadn't given him the time of day, instead addressed the business at hand, repressing the thought of taking out the pick-axe from his car and gouging the man's eyes out. "Her hair.. fucking _marvellous_ ," Greyback had growled, Abraxas merely nodding at his side. 

The last thing Tom needed to be hearing about at their meetings was a woman with _good hair_. Considering the recent interest from the Commissioner, and Grindelwald's rabid dog had broken off it's leash, Tom ignored anybody for the rest of the night and focused on what was really important. _Not having that bastard around any longer._  

Tom had been pacing back and forth across the delicatessen, cigarette puffing at his mouth and hands taught behind his back. Eyes taking in the frost that had formed on Ollivander's windows, he was brought out of his head and into the small grocery store and the two men whom had just cleaned the blood from their suits. 

“Greyback likes that place, if he’s going to be anywhere tonight it should be there” Dolohov shrugged, eyes following Tom as he walked. “Clever boys-,” he clipped, “-now you’ll all be distracted,” he allowed a smirk. There was a babble of laughter from Rosier, ever mischievous. He stopped pacing promptly and then started for the door. The decision had been made to leave, and not another word was said to encourage his men to follow him out of the store. 

He held it open, closing the door for Ollivander rather politely considering earlier events.

Dolohov and Rosier, fighting on whom would hold the money, stepped out into the frigid night air with him. Tom’s breath clouded around his face as they waited for any sign of life on the street before them. Rosier whistled down a lonely cab turning their way, ignorant of the terrified expression of the driver. “Hope he’s not expecting a _big_ tip,” Rosier joked, gesturing to the leather-bound brief case that hung from his hands.  
  
\---

Tom had been in _Mystique_ a few times, and each consecutive time had been no longer than five minutes. A few meetings, and a celebration for Rosier's birthday, in which he had made a polite appearance to wish him well and then disappeared into the crowd. When the cab had pulled up outside of the rust-coloured building, neon sign illuminating the cloudy cab window, Tom was indifferent to any prior experience. If he was to see Greyback, he was to be focused. The interrogation with Ollivander had left him angry, and he wanted nothing more than to relinquish that anger. Preferably with a bullet or two between Greyback's ugly eyebrows. _No,_ he thought. _You must wait_. Tom wasn't an impatient man though, and he could do just that. 

He subconsciously patted the glock at his hip, mind elsewhere than in his current predicament. The line to _Mystique_  at this time of night was rather long, men and women alike chatting animatedly amongst themselves and paying their dues into the club. Tom recognised Hagrid, the huge miserable oaf that Grindelwald had employed not long after the buy-out. He was patting down suited men at the entrance, and his usually friendly face went icy as he turned away a drunken man trying to skip the line. 

Leaving the cab, he threw a bill towards the driver, not stopping to check if Rosier and Dolohov were behind him. "They're inside," Rosier remarked, slamming the cab door, "Abraxas just messaged." Tom nodded once, starting for the entrance. Hagrid, it seems, didn't recognise him at first. He held out his hands up hastily, big beard shaking as he wiggled his arms at them. "You needa wait jus' like everybody else, I'm afraid-" Tom looked at him, charming smile already in place. "Hagrid, don't tell me you don't recognise us," Tom's tease was playful, but it held a warning. 

Hagrid's face blotched red and he cleared his meaty throat, stepping to the side and clapping Tom on the shoulder as he walked inside. "Nice to see ya Mr. Riddle sir," he babbled. Tom dropped his smile, Rosier and Dolohov following behind him. They exchanged similarly with Hagrid, and once inside, he surveyed his surroundings. 

Green neon's swung around in every direction, men and women alike bumbling over their beverages, crumpled cash in their hands. The music wasn't unpleasant, but it was far too loud for Tom's liking. Down his nose, he looked through the throngs of excited people and found just whom he was looking for. Abraxas Malfoy shook his cigar at his brother, bearded face screwed up in disagreement. Tom held back a smile. The brothers were known for petty arguments.

The three of them approached the duo, Tom's peripherals ever vigilant, _was that a girl eyeing him on stage?_

Clearing his throat, Lucius was the first to acknowledge his presence. Rosier and Dolohov had dumped the brief case and run off, much to Tom's dismay. Dolohov, he would have expected. Rosier, on the other hand- happened to be Tom's favourite, but he'd never admit it. Abandoning work to enjoy himself was rather disappointing, and he made a note to retrieve him back shortly.

"Riddle," the tone was curt, and Lucius' lips (ever pursed), turned up slightly in greeting. "Greyback didn't want to stay for a chat, I'm afraid."

Tom felt his heart drop, his stomach wrapping itself around a ball of disdain. Careful of his breathing, he interjected.

"And why-" he started, " _not?_ "

The Malfoy's had one job, and that was to engage the big brute in conversation had he been here. Greyback wasn't a smart man, and Tom didn't suspect that he would catch on had the blonde brothers cornered him and bought him a drink.   
  
"He was in a bit of a rush, actually," Abraxas confessed, "nearly ran me over as we said hello." 

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, _perhaps Greyback was a bit smarter than he thought_. They hadn't given him a reason to be suspicious, had they? Perhaps they mentioned Ollivander..

The smoke from Abraxas' cigar wafted up Tom's nostrils and he suddenly very much wanted a cigarette.  

"I'll be back," the words left Tom's mouth before he could stop them, "mind it, Abraxas" he snapped his fingers, knocking the forgotten brief case into the Malfoy's shoe with his foot. He needed to think, and this wasn't the place for it- he needed to leave. 

Turning in his shoes, Tom made to retrieve his goons that had ventured towards the stage. Greyback wouldn't have driven, and there was virtually no way to track a cab- he had escaped for the night, clearly. Tom was left to plot his next move, and he wasn't particularly pleased about it. He'd have to report to Grindelwald in the morning and the thought of disappointing him made him cringe. He was better than this. He could handle the slippery ones, and he was good at it. _He needed Grindelwald's trust if his developing plan was going to work_. 

"Rosier." It wasn't an address, more of an order. _Come_. The man in front of him sagged visibly, and Tom knew he had won. But it was when he acknowledged his presence, allowing Tom into his vicinity, that Tom was finally graced with the object of his men's desires. 

 _It was her_ , he knew it instantly. Her bushy chestnut curls had been a dead give away, and Tom almost wanted to laugh. _The one with the hair_ , the one Greyback had been ever-consumed by, the one whom had been making him drool during their business meetings. She knelt before them, and if they hadn't have been in a strip club, he would have thought it was rather perverse. Her skin, pearlescent ivory, glowed under the green lights and had a sweaty sheen to it. Her top hung over her torso, her breasts released from the emerald bikini she wore. Tom peeked, and he was definitely pleased, but he was most captivated by the expression she wore.

His eyes clung to hers. It was innocence, as innocent one could be working in a seedy club such as _Mystique._

In one look, he felt he knew everything there was to know about her (smart, calculated, _definitely_ bossy)- and yet, at the very same time,  _nothing_. Tom felt that despite the etherial air about her, green lights haloed around her golden hair, her brown orbs were ageless with experience and knowledge. 

It was almost comical, her full lips had parted slightly and he was sure if he listened hard enough he could hear the rapid breaths that escaped her throat. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession, causing the men around her to furrow their brows and drop their mouths in pure, unadulterated desire. She really was, very pretty. Her face was soft where Tom's was hard, and her body was deliciously curved in a way that sent tingles to his trousers. The eyes, meeting Tom's confidently in a way that almost impressed him, were lined with a pencil- thin brown smudges disappearing into her lash line.

Tom wanted to see her without it. Peculiar, she was, and an absolute vision.

In his peripheral, the hundred dollar note sat in front of her, waiting for the taking. _He wondered.._  
  
"What's up," Dolohov whispered. Tom, never taking his eyes off the woman in front of him, explained the current predicament. 

Rosier rattled in his ear about the brief case waiting for them near the Malfoy's, when Tom felt a sudden urge to grab the bill in front of him.

 _And there it was._ He had suspected that she was a fiesty one, and the fury she hid for him within her eyes confirmed it. It made him excited. The conversation with his men was suddenly going nowhere, and he dismissed them. Dismissed through ignorance, which he noted was causing Dolohov's face to purple. The fool never liked being ignored. The two received the message eventually, ceasing their attempts to chat, and they trotted back to the Malfoy's with a grumble. 

The woman's face paled significantly, and then he started towards her, and her cheeks rouged with the fire of a thousand suns. It was delightfully sinful, the way she gaped at him. 

He pulled another bill from his pocket, and he was sure that the girl hadn't seen it. He reached out, and he heard her gasp audibly as he tucked the bills within her knickers. Her skin, he noted, felt as dewey as it looked. 

_It was delicious._

"Thank you," she sniffed. Bossy- as he had predicted, and a bit obnoxious.

Despite it, he noted pleasantly that her voice ran over him as if someone had poured a bucket of warm water over his shoulders on a cold day. 

“Enjoy your night, Miss,” he said, nothing short of polite. 

And then he turned away, hand coming up absentmindedly to check his watch. When he noted that she had turned away from him, his free hand came up to his nose. The one that had brushed against her abdomen. 

He inhaled deeply, and had finally formulated an idea. 

_Yes, he knew what to do._

 

 

 

 ---

 

Sorry to leave you hanging there, but there are definitely some hints about what Tom is planning..   
  
As for Hermione, how does she fit into all this? I'd like to hear some guesses - where do you think the story is going?!?!?! 

Thanks for all the support, and I hope this chapter didn't disappoint. If it did, sorry lol. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters here within. All rights reserved to J.K Rowling. Film material is trademarked by Warner Brothers. I do not own Dead Man's Bones' lyrics!!!


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short-ish chapter and the lack of any real entertainment! Bit of a cliffhanger, we're starting to get to the backbone of the story now. 
> 
> I've posted the first instalment of a new story on my page also, it is a period Tomione fic! if you're interested check it out. 
> 
> Message me at specialtrauma.tumblr.com if you ever want to talk!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter:  
>  _Spies_ \- Coldplay

~

 _I awake to find no peace of mind_  
  
I said how do you live as a fugitive?

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Hermione**

* * *

 

“Wait,  _how_  many were there?”

Ginny was lying on her back, her long freckled legs locked together over the edge of the change room sofa. Hermione had found the girl lounging away, fingers dusted in potato chip crumbs as she thumbed through the money on her person. It was almost three in the morning, and Hermione could hear Hagrid shooing some disorderly drunken patrons out from her position on the sofa next to her friend.

After the strange encounter with the men, Hermione had ended her stage set and shot upstairs like a bat out of hell to tell Ginny and Luna what she’d witnessed, nearly tripping over her  _Pleasers_  in the process. The interaction was unsettling at best, and she couldn’t ignore the worms that tossed around in her stomach, devouring her insides, her  _confidence_ , in time with the spectacular pace of her heart. It couldn’t be ignored any longer. The newspaper she had ruminated on over the Summer, the conspicuous bundles of cash, the hushed whispers through the smoky haze of Mystique's business lounge. It was finally time to discuss it. The elephant in the room that had been ignored since Ginny had called her in absolute tears. 

Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that was beginning to pool in her chest, festering in a cold lump- much like a snowball that was melting inside her, the cool excess dripping slowly through her insides. No, there was no more time to play ignorant. While it was a bit daunting to have to admit what she’d just gawked at was  _real_ , and most likely criminal activity, she knew that having her friends aware of the nature of  _Mystique’s_  elusive owner would be somewhat comforting (and probably considerate, she thought in hindsight). 

“There were five in total, but I only saw two with guns,” Hermione brought her voice down to a whisper, noting that Lavender had wondered in to snatch something off her vanity. 

She thought of the blonde man with the cigar and the hauntingly handsome stranger whom had tipped her and wandered off before she could repay the favour.

Her cheeks flamed in memory, but she was quickly distracted by Ginny.

Her eyes saucers, she surveyed Hermione’s face while upside down from her position on the sofa. “You never said guns, Hermione. You literally said  _'questionable items'_ , for Christ's sake. Why didn’t you come and tell us the minute you saw them, you lunatic?” she chastised, and Hermione didn’t have an answer. Luna, whom was sitting cross-legged in front of the sofa, played with the ends of her hair and inspected them absent-mindedly. “I always figured something was going on,” she said dreamily, “but I never thought it would be this.” Hermione wasn’t even sure Luna was paying attention, but she never failed to surprise her by butting back into the conversation periodically, as if her mind wasn’t anywhere else.

“Really, Luna? You didn’t read the paper did you?” Ginny rolled her eyes, and Hermione’s heart sank due to the biting tone of her usually pleasant friend. “Do you think we should tell the others?” Ginny breathed, her voice a lot quieter than it usually was. “I’m just thinking, I wouldn’t like it if one of the other girls knew something and was taking us for a spin,” she said honestly. Luna’s response was quiet, but there was a smile on her lips.

“I wouldn’t either. But I highly doubt that this compares to the time Hermione didn’t tell you that there was toilet paper stuck to you-”

 “-That’s  _not_  what I meant, and you know it!” Ginny’s ears reddened in embarrassment, her confident demeanour disappearing instantly.

Hermione couldn’t help the sheepish smile in her friend’s direction. Ignorance is bliss in  _some_  instances….

“The minute I heard about McGonagall and the change... I knew something was up,” Ginny’s hazel eyes narrowed towards the ceiling and she clicked her tongue in thought, “I’ve danced here for five years and that woman never would have left her pride and joy. Who do they think they  _are_ , anyway?” she sat up, facing Hermione and Luna, “the real question is, what are they doing that’s dangerous enough to need guns? And how did they get them through the door? Don’t get me wrong- the right to bear arms, whatever, but I don’t see them needing one- can you imagine  _Lavender_  pulling a knife on one of them?” she laughed, and Luna shared a small grin with her.

“Willingly,” Hermione cut in, sharp mind always focused. Always thinking. Always imagining the worst-case scenario, no matter how hard she tried to be rational. It was suddenly going a mile a minute as she pondered Ginny’s words, “she wouldn’t have left  _willingly_.”

There was a pause that hung over the three girls, and for a few seconds the only noise was the dense bass of Lee’s DJ booth and Lavender’s girlish laughter as she chatted to Parvati on the spiral staircase.  Luna spoke up, her voice small but strong, “you don’t think that, do you Hermione?” but Hermione understood Luna's calm facade differently, to be revealing that she was, indeed, suspicious too. The girls shared a look, and Luna's red-rimmed blue eyes were for once entirely all-knowing, unlike her usual stupor. 

Hermione picked at her fingers, and all she could think of was the newspaper she had mulled over during the Summer. S _uspect of counterfeiting, coercion, fraud, armed robbery and murder takes over management of Chicago’s oldest gentleman’s club…_

“I just find it hard to believe that she would walk away, I mean. It doesn’t make sense,” Hermione fretted. She couldn’t help feeling dazed as her mind reeled back to focus on the brief case, the way the leather had been polished, the way it undoubtedly belonged to someone whom  _loved_  it. What had been in it? Why had those two men been arguing? Who, or what, on Earth was  _Greyback_?

“I, for one, am not going to let anyone stop me from making some dough,” Ginny smirked, fingers tapping away mindlessly at the pile of cash on her hip. “A couple of guns don’t frighten old Ginevra.” Ginny had always been the face of rebellion and boldness within the threesome, but something wavered in her as she sniffed frostily. She'd never been one to admit when something was playing at her mind, and while this infuriated Hermione to no end, tonight she was anxious to peel back the layers of Ginny's subconscious and study the thought within. As she observed her friend, she couldn't help the cringe at her rising volume. “I agree with you, though. I think old McGonagall definitely played into some bad business-”  
  
“-A couple of guns could certainly shut old Ginevra  _up_ ,” Hermione scoffed, not being able to help the bubble of laughter that escaped. “If you talk much louder, you’ll have even the girls downstairs frightened of what’s going on.”

“ _What’s_  going on?” 

Lavender, bright eyes inquisitive and a smile playing on her glossy lips came bounding up the stairs, having parted from Parvati in haste. Hermione inwardly scowled. Lavender was always up for a bit of gossip, and suddenly she was wishing she had hushed Ginny from screaming to the rooftops a little earlier. Ginny, eyes playful, shot Hermione a look.

She already knew what she was saying.  _“Watch your mouth, ‘Mione. It’s not always me who gets us into trouble!”_

“We’ve just had a very,” she searched for the right word, “ _interesting_ evening.” Ginny tried to repress a laugh, and Luna eyed the sofa, smile fighting to break free on her petite face.

“She’s got a smelly new regular,” Ginny interrupted loudly, drawing attention from other girls whom were counting cash and adjusting their makeup at vanities, and Hermione wanted to disappear.   
  
“He’s got rank breath apparently, and he’s big and grabby and-”

“-He’s not very pleasant,  _no_.”   
  
Hermione elbowed Ginny from her place beside her on the sofa. Lavender had drawn closer to the group, linking arms with Luna, whom was now staring mindlessly at Hermione's shoes. Something in Lavender's face ticked as the friends bickered, like she was clamping down her teeth a bit too tightly on nothing, her jaw as strong as cement. Even though her eyes still sparkled, Hermione definitely felt Lavender's grief. “At least you  _have_  a regular…” she murmured.

Hermione frowned, repressing a dramatic eye-roll. 

Almost as quick as her mood depressed, she was on the up again. “That’s funny you mention it though; I could have sworn I had a gentleman like that just the other night! He came in, smelled questionable, and he definitely asked me if I’d seen  _you_ , Hermione!” 

Lavender continued, Ginny and Hermione shooting each other peripheral looks, flabbergasted at the speed in which Lavender was rattling away. 

Hermione’s attention dropped with each passing word. Until…  
  
“-and then, when I asked him his name, he introduced himself as Fenrir, and I thought hmmm... what an interesting name!  _Greyback_ , he’d said,  _Fenrir Greyback_ \- is that your new regular, ‘Mione?”

Hermione didn’t even notice the use of her nickname, wholly reserved for close friends. If she hadn't just heard Greyback, she would have cringed. 

Was it a coincidence? Was she wrong?  
  
The rational part of her brain ceased to work, leaving her breathless and sending her heart through the roof. 

Hermione was never wrong. Hermione's deduction was overflowing with certainty. The man with the silk button down, the chest hair, the man with the grey whiskers- his name was  _Fenrir Greyback_. Her new regular customer.

She wanted to vomit.

Her mind darted back to Tuesday night, when he'd made his first appearance within the club and had smiled nastily as he paid her.  

 _"So, what do you do for work?" It had taken every last drop of her courage to ask the man a question. He towered over her easily, and had arms like tree trunks with thick, sinewy muscle that would be perfect to strangle her with._  
  
_"None of your business. Can't be fucked with frivolity tonight darling, keep moving"_

"Was that his name?" her voice was a squeak, barely audible over Lee's DJ.   
  
"Well, don't you know his name? What kind of regular is that, 'Mione?" Ginny's eyebrows were in her flaming hair, but she knew her friend too well to know that Ginny wasn't actually confused. Suddenly there was the all-knowing gaze that she had just seen in Luna's eyes, in her freckled friend's. Hermione hadn't considered to tell her friends about the word, or  _name_  rather, that she had overheard earlier- but there was no denying that Luna and Ginny would be ripping an explanation for behaviour from her the minute Lavender took her leave.   
  
"We don't do a whole lot of talking. I don't think he's ever introduced himself before," the words came out of her mouth, but she felt as if she was standing by and only watching herself talk- having no control, merely observing the way the meek words were being spoken. 

Lavender made an excuse to leave after seeing Hermione’s green face, mumbling about Parvati and tossing her blonde curls over one shoulder as she descended back down the spiral staircase into the depths of their mysterious club.   
  
Fitting, the name was.  _Mystique_. Hermione could laugh.

"Explain," Ginny's eyes bored into hers. 

In a flurry of anxious slurring, she told her friends in a speed that could rival Lavender. 

"I saw you with him tonight. You definitely looked uncomfortable, it was plain as day," Luna was playing with her hair again, muttering dreamily.

Ginny frowned. "This is the one you were talking about earlier, you're  _sure?_ " 

Hermione shot her a look. 

"Yeah, alright, I believe you then."

“What do you think was in that case?” Luna, now lent forward onto her knees. She had obviously noticed Hermione's discomfort, drawing attention back to the strange individuals. Her voice was barely a whisper, and then Ginny and Luna seemed to be clinging to whatever words were going to slip out of Hermione's mouth, edging forward ever so-slightly, eyes gleaming.

She sighed, then allowed herself to speak. 

“I don’t know. But I don’t think we should tell anyone yet. It could’ve been nothing, for all we know,” the words were purely acidic, escaping through habit of anxiety, and her tongue burned. Her rationale had come back with a vengeance suddenly, but the words were dishonest, and Hermione was uncomfortable admitting that despite her best efforts to convince herself otherwise, that what she’d seen had been a farce or nothing conspicuous at all, she  _knew_  that there was something wrong. She was never wrong, after all. 

Something reeked. Greyback, the men, the brief case… they were all waiting for Hermione to connect the dots, waiting for her to build an illustrious web. 

Her friends whispered amongst themselves, hypothesising about large diamonds and ridiculous clues to buried treasure that must be hidden away in the brief case. The tension was disappearing with each joke, but Hermione sat rooted to the sofa, and all she saw in the haze of her hurried thoughts were a pair of reclusive, yet inviting, steely blue eyes.

 

-

 

Arriving home never failed to be welcoming, in the purest way.

Hermione felt the weight of the night pull at her shoulders, as if she hauled a heavy barbell with her into the elevator. She palmed the eleventh button, feeling as if her arms were about to drop the endless bags she had in tow. As she keyed open the door and piled through the doorway to her apartment, she couldn’t help the whine of pleasure that escaped her. Her bags, entirely forgotten, fell free from her arms and she shut the door behind her with a satisfying  _clunk_.   
  
Her cat, Crookshanks, sauntered over to Hermione’s feet and rolled onto his back, exposing the ginger fur of his stomach. He gave a purr, and Hermione toed off her shoe and rubbed his belly with her foot- none too surprised when he began to claw and nibble at her toes. 

Hermione’s flat was in the better part of town, in a tall gun metal grey building that overlooked the Chicago river. It was a rather small apartment, but it was big enough for her and Crookshanks. The rent wasn’t cheap, however Hermione’s income was generous enough that she wasn’t breaking the bank- and she could even save a little, too. Her entryway housed a small collection of plants, spiky cacti and succulents- Hermione had never been much of a green thumb, but seeing the greenery amongst the dreary grey of her city was undoubtedly pleasing. The clock above her fridge in the kitchen told her it was almost six in the morning.

The walls that enveloped her small haven were a tapestry beige, and her college diploma hung proudly over the desk pushed against the wall opposite her living room, encased in a silver frame that never failed to make Hermione’s heart swell. 

“Aw, Crooks,” Hermione frowned as she crooned at her cat, the patch of ginger hair on one of the mauve sofa’s cushions, tell-tale signs of where Crookshanks had spent the day sleeping away, was waiting for her to sweep up with a lint roller. Without waiting another second, she made way to her bathroom, idly humming to herself as Crookshanks followed her soundlessly.

She passed the living room, thoughts of curling up on the sofa and napping the day away a dream that seemed almost unreal in her tired, sunken state. The living room was small and cosy, with patchwork quilts hung over the back of her sofa as a friendly reminder of Molly, whom like her daughter Ginny, was headstrong but kind and compassionate (and very insistent on treating Hermione as her own). Long Grove seemed all too far away at Christmas time, and so the Weasley's were always happy to accomodate her. Of course, they didn't know about Ginny's line of work- and so the pair of them upheld the fantasy that they were ‘bartenders working odd hours throughout the night’, for Molly and Arthur's sake. 

This being said, Jean Granger back in Long Grove didn't know either. The fight to become employed in the big city was all too much, and Hermione in a spur of panic, fearing utter failure and shame, told her mother she'd found a steady job and was regularly challenging herself and exploring within the literature field. Lies, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to hurt her family. 

Empty coffee cups littered the small wooden table in front of the sofa, amongst the latest novel she’d taken to perusing, and a pair of crimson reading glasses with gold flecks that Hermione had begrudgingly admitted she needed to wear. She flicked the light switch, startling Crookshanks as the hum of electricity roared to life within her ceiling, and the hospital-like glow of the LED’s in her bathroom fed her desire to wash away the tiredness that was plain as day on her face in the mirror. It was horrendous, the makeup had begun to seep into the crow’s feet of her eyes, and her lipstick had almost rubbed off completely. The cold water was welcome she leant over the sink, water spilling through her fingers in rivulets each time Hermione brought them to her face. Crookshanks jumped onto the counter, and while he had started lapping up the water at the bottom of her sink, causing Hermione to giggle, her eyes were brought up to the mirror- and she sighed.

From the sofa of the change room, to the taxi, to trudging down the street towards her apartment complex, the events of the early morning continued to fester in her subconscious, dragging Hermione in further and further with each new scenario, each new possibility or danger. If she was leaning over a mirror of her rumination, the ghosts below the surface had come up to pull her down to join them in the murky depths. It was silly, and unnecessary- to overthink. She knew this, and had always known that she tended to over-react in misunderstood situations.

Something was stopping her from ignoring what had happened, and she didn’t like it. At all.

There was a chirping noise from Crookshanks, and once she had gotten herself ready for a day of rejuvenating sleep, she rolled her eyes.

“Come on Crooks let’s get breakfast then, you greedy boy...”

 

-

 

Her nap on the sofa didn’t last long. A furious knocking at her front door gave Hermione a huge fright, and Crookshanks, whom had been nestled in her neck, jumped with a skittish yelp and hid under the sofa. Hermione shot up, blinking furiously as the sound continued. At first, she thought it was construction. A quick look over towards the fridge told her it was almost one in the afternoon, a regular time for her to stir from sleep anyways. Begrudgingly, she left the warm confines of the sofa blankets and started for the door.

Suddenly, she felt as if she had just dunked her head in a bucket of freezing ice water. The animalistic man Greyback, and the men with the mysterious brief case, and the handsome stranger with the piercing eyes were lurking in the back of her mind as she swallowed thickly, the knocking at her door muted to almost inaudible. 

 _Don't be paranoid. Don't be paranoid. Don't be paranoid-_  
  
Hermione swallowed, arm reaching out to steady herself against the door frame. Heart pounding, expecting a huge terrifying man with a pistol, or an even bigger man pounding his own fist much like the films, Hermione unlocked the door and ripped it open. 

She hadn't expected a petite, mousy-looking woman with a cropped shaggy mane of blue hair and a friendly, pleasant expression. She was dressed in business clothes despite it being a Sunday, her small frame tucked away in a blouse, some navy slacks and a tidy-looking blazer that was almost too big for her. She gave Hermione a big smile. 

She was blinking dumbly at the woman, hyper-aware of the mess of curls on her head and the fact that she hadn't showered yet. 

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, actually- are you Hermione Granger?"

The woman's response was prompt, and then a dreadful black hole had begun to swallow up her insides. "Yes, I am," her voice was meek. Had she ordered a service on the apartment? Was this somebody from the real estate, on a  _Sunday?_

Then, the realisation begun to fester as the woman held up a flat leather wallet, an identical pictured woman printed amongst a name and an occupation- but it wasn't until Hermione's eyes found the glimmering badge underneath that she began to panic. 

"Detective Nymphadora Tonks, nice to meet you Miss Granger.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters here within. All rights reserved to J.K Rowling. Film material is trademarked by Warner Brothers. I do not own Coldplay's lyrics!!!


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the last short chapter!! Hopefully this makes up for any cliffhangers ahem..  
> Hope this is a good instalment for you! We're starting to get to the nitty gritty of the plot now. Things are starting to develop... spoopy!  
> Also, I'd like to apologise if any of these characters a bit OOC. This _is_ an AU, after all. Things are going to be a bit different :) Hope you're okay with that!
> 
> Feel free to message me at specialtrauma dot tumblr dot com if you want to discuss anything :) 
> 
> Also, let me know what you guys think will happen! I **LOVE** hearing ideas!

~

 _I awake to find no peace of mind_  
  
I said how do you live as a fugitive?

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Hermione**

* * *

Then, the realisation begun to fester as the woman held up a flat leather wallet, an identical pictured woman printed amongst a name and an occupation- but it wasn't until Hermione's eyes found the glimmering badge underneath that she began to panic.

"Detective Nymphadora Tonks, nice to meet you Miss Granger."

Hermione blinked. Once, then twice.  _Oh._

_Can I take the man with the gun instead?_

The arm that was bracing her against the doorframe buckled slightly under her weight. "I'm sorry-," she said thickly, and her brain began to catastrophize despite every effort to remain rational.  _Calm down. Calm down._ The words cycled, but with every second she spent guffawing at the detective in front of her, she was reminded more and more of a similar unexpected visit from her youth. 

A visit from a police man, looking far too miserable despite it being early New Year’s morning. She was eleven, and her mother howled into her palms and sunk to the floor after screaming for Hermione to leave the room. It had been terrifying not knowing what the adults were talking about, but even then she was sharper than most. She'd always been a problem solver, even when she didn't want to be. She wanted to ignore the despair that crept up into her chest when she noticed her father's car was missing, that he hadn't come in to wake her as he usually did during the holidays. There were pancakes on the stove, cold and dry. The empty bottle of syrup was lopsided, draining what was left of the stickiness. She cursed herself for tying together what had happened before her mother could sit her down on the living room sofa and explain that,  _"Dad isn't coming home, 'Mione."_

It was hard, she wasn't afraid to admit it. She'd struggled years afterward, felt tight and highly strung every time she heard her mother cry alone in her bedroom. She'd never known that her daughter could hear, and Hermione had never said anything, had not even reacted even when she sunk to the floor and pressed her ear against her mother's door, tears threatening to spill over her cheeks. She wanted to say,  _"I'm here. I know,"_  but she never could, and maybe it was better she didn't say anything at all. Reaching out meant admitting what had happened was real. 

Now, years later, it took Hermione quite a few moments to realise that Detective Nymphadora Tonks had been saying her name. 

_You've done nothing wrong. Invite her in._

"Forgive me, come in-," she muttered, shaking herself back to reality. 

Before she could finish however, Tonks ducked underneath her arm and strode into the apartment, quickly making herself at home on the sofa among the wreckage from Hermione's nap. She crossed her petite legs, smiling warmly. Hermione hadn't moved from the doorway, instead she gawked after the small woman. She picked up her jaw and tried to emulate the woman's confidence as she shut her apartment door and made her way to the kitchen. "Coffee? Water?" 

She ran on auto-pilot, eyes taking in the empty kettle sitting on her kitchen bench and the inconvenient lack of coffee in her pantry. Thankfully, the detective only asked for water. 

"Hermione-," she started, "I don't mean to scare you, I really  _hate_  these things, you know?" she laughed, and shuffled in her seat- nearly sending one of the blankets tumbling to the floor. Hermione blinked, not quite sure of what she was on about. "What I mean is, I don't like barging into peoples' homes, but I'm afraid I must bother you today for a number of reasons...," Tonks took the glass of water from her offered hand, and Hermione joined her on the sofa feeling all too uncomfortable despite it being her own home. _A number of reasons?_

She was determined to remain confident, and repressed the confusion that bubbled up inside her. "I don't have a lot to do today, as you can probably tell," she felt the corners of her lips turn up, desperate to appear relatable despite her anxiety, "I hope I can help?" she didn't mean for it to sound like a question. If Tonks had come on a Sunday of all days, it had to be important. At least, that's what she figured. She shuffled in her perch on the edge of the sofa, and listened, trying to piece together any semblance of reason for the detective's visit. 

"Well, I'd like to start with some questions if you don't mind, but we have all morning I suppose-," Hermione's heart fell at the idea of entertaining the detective for more than twenty minutes, "you have a nice place, by the way. This must cost you a fortune," she smiled. The intent behind it struck her in the chest, and despite that she knew better, she felt anger bubbling. It was something she was all too used to. The homeless who saw her entering and leaving the club from the street corners, the taxi drivers who would shoot her knowing glances through their rear-view mirrors, and the elderly neighbour down the hall who she almost  _always_  ran into when she was still covered in make-up and grimy sweat in the early morning hours.

They all knew, and she felt the same biting realisation, the same  _judgemental_  realisation, in Tonks' remark. 

"Must it?" she just couldn't help herself, "I think you and I both know how I can afford it, detective," she snapped. 

When Tonks face flushed beet red, she felt regret snatch her breath and then felt a similar heat creep up her neck. 

_Now you've done it._

"Sorry, what I  _mean_  is..." she mirrored the detective's earlier comment, eyes peeking up from her lap to gauge Tonks' reaction, "I think that's why you're here. Am I right?"

She was always right. 

"I'm sorry if that came across as rude, Hermione. I promise you don't need to be bothered by what I think. To be frank, I really don't give a shit what you do, or how you afford this place- all I care about is your tax record," she paused, offering a mousy smile, "which I know from looking is perfect, I'd expect nothing less." 

Hermione quirked an eyebrow, but felt her mirroring Tonks' smile, "I'd planned on a farce declaration next year so I hope that won't disappoint."

Tonks laughed, and for the first time since the detective entered her apartment, Hermione felt like she could relax a little. Crookshanks brushed up against her legs, and she picked up the ginger mass and settled him against her chest. He nuzzled into her, his fur blending into her hair which was beginning to dread at the base of her skull from lack of attention. She felt embarrassed looking like a mess when Tonks was sitting right next to her, clearly showered and clean, while she still hadn't washed last night's grime off herself. 

"You are right, though. About why I'm here. I wanted to ask you some questions about yourself, first, and then I wanted to discuss  _Mystique_ ," Tonks paused to retrieve a weathered notepad and pen from her blazer pocket, nearly dropping them onto the floor when Crookshanks suddenly sprung off the couch and bolted to Hermione's room. 

Hermione repressed a smile, instead mentally preparing herself for an onslaught of questions.

"So, can we begin?" 

With a nod, Hermione launched into answering all of the detective's questions. She started with asking when Hermione first started working at the club, and her thoughts on McGonagall's absence despite the change-over to Grindelwald's management. Tonks brushed over Grindelwald's name like it was nothing, but Hermione knew better. She tried to remain neutral in her thought patterns, even though the questions were causing a stir in her rationale. She hadn't spoken to McGonagall in months, and she didn't know anybody who had. She hadn't even said goodbye, come to think of it. Why hadn't she thought of how strange that was until now?

When she asked about Hermione's relationship with the patrons, it was a bit embarrassing to have to say that everyone was always in good spirits when a half-naked girl was in their laps, but she soon remembered the all-too familiar obnoxious silk shirt with the obnoxious yellow smile to match. 

"Hermione? Do you know why I'm wanting to know these things?" Tonks asked softly, her pen had ceased scribbling for the mean time as she took in Hermione's face.

She wasn't good at hiding emotions, never had been and never will be. She met Tonks’ eyes, and instead she saw the soulless golden orbs of Fenrir Greyback. 

"Not entirely," she answered meekly.

Tonks sighed, and placed her pen and pad back into her blazer pocket. "There's another reason I'm here today. I have some bad news. Minerva McGonagall's body has been found," Hermione gasped like her lungs had been punctured as she scrambled for words, "I didn't know she was missing-?"

"-I'm sorry you had to hear it like this," Tonks cut back in, apologetic.

"She was found early this morning, I don't know if you were close with her, and I know that doesn't make a difference. We suspect foul play, and I'm talking to a few of the girls in the chances that it'll lead somewhere.  _Do you understand?_ " Tonks delivered the bombshell like it had been rehearsed several times. Her persona had turned as hard as steel, her jaw tightly wound and her body rigid. It was not her first day on the job, Hermione was sure of that. Despite the young woman's face, wrinkle-free excluding the laugh lines framing her mouth, her eyes held wisdom beyond her years that could only be attributed to the harsh lifestyle of a homicide detective. 

Yet, the last question made Hermione's jaw tick- and as she met the detective's face she couldn't help but feel like there was something the detective was searching for, something she was holding back. Why was she here after only finding the body this morning? It was remarkably quick, and unless she had been prepared to find a body,  _expected_  it even, Hermione didn't know why anybody, especially her, needed to be questioned right away. 

_She's subtle, but she's hiding something._

Tonks had stopped talking, clearly anticipating for any reaction that could be expected working in her field of work, and delivering news like  _that_.

It felt like a dream, and Hermione hoped that she'd wake up soon from her nap and find that the suspicious men were fabricated by her vivid imagination and there was nobody in Chicago called Fenrir Greyback. There was no detective that had come to talk to her, and when she woke up McGonagall would still be running the club with her thin lips and harsh bun. It was too tempting to buy into it, but her pessimism wasn't used to being ignored. She steeled herself, taking a few deep breaths and began to respond. 

"I understand," she didn't really, not yet anyway, "but we weren't as close as I'd have liked to be. Can I ask  _why_  you suspect that?"  

Tonks smiled apologetically, and Hermione already knew her answer. "I can't divulge any information other than to family, Hermione. Not yet, anyway. I just wanted you to know. Have you by any chance seen anything around the club? Anything unusual at all?" 

She was fishing, hands knitted together over one knee and eyeing Hermione with open curiosity. She felt like a bug frying under a microscope. 

Greyback's face still flashed behind her eyes, but now she was thinking of the three men and the brief case. 

"There have been a few different things happening, but nothing unusual," she didn't know why she was lying, "is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

She met Tonks' eyes with indifference, searching for any sign of emotion that was bound to spill over. Tonks remained steely much to her dismay, but she smiled. 

"You tell me, Hermione." 

 

-

  

When the detective had taken her leave, Hermione had closed the door behind her and sunk to the floor, the thin piece of card (her parting gift) clutched tightly in her hand. The questions hadn't lasted long, and Tonks had been prompt in acknowledging it was time to leave once Hermione started fidgeting. 

"Look." Nymphadora's tone had taken an authoritative turn, and she stood up suddenly from her position on the sofa. "Look," she repeated, softer, "I only came today to get a sense of who you are, Hermione. To be honest, this case is already driving me up the fucking wall- and I need help. If you have something,  _anything_ -," she continued, shooting her a knowing look and ignoring Hermione's frown, "then I'll leave you my number and you can call me directly. If you  _talk_  to anybody, if you hear anything, even if it doesn't seem important to  _you_ -," she pulled a business card from her trousers, placing it on Hermione's table. She met Hermione near the door, shaking her hand and cradling it in both of hers a beat longer than necessary before she went to leave.

 _"Please don't feel scared to call, and whatever you do- be careful, okay?"_  

That had been fifteen minutes before the afternoon news, and afterwards she had taken her remote off the table and punched the 'on' button before sinking to the floor in her entryway. She listened to the drone of the television, tuning in every now and again as she stared at the printed ink of Tonks' business card. It was delicate in her fingers, completely unlike the fiery woman whom had just come into Hermione's home and caused her to lose any semblance of rationale after discussing McGonagall's death. She curled her legs underneath her and felt the breath she didn't know she'd been holding on to escape.

She had lied. Openly and without any reason. 

She'd told the detective that there was nothing unusual, absolutely  _nothing_ , that was going on under Mystique's roof and it was a fat lie. With a jolt she remembered that Tonks was in the process of wrangling interviews with the other girls and she prayed that Luna or Ginny weren't amongst them. Or if they were, she hoped to God that they wouldn't mention anything. It was the elephant in the room all over again, she was angry that even though she had taken the liberty to finally address it with her friends- there was a part of her that hoped,  _still_ , if she didn't acknowledge it in front of the detective then it wouldn't come back to bite her in the ass.

"...  _We have suspicions on who the culprit behind these murders is, and will be acting accordingly.”_

Commissioner Shacklebolt's voice distracted her. She held her breath again involuntarily.

_"-That was Commissioner Shacklebolt's address to the general public during last month's conference, in which it is implied that our city's police are taking action to keep Chicago's citizens safe. No leads on suspects have been released to the public yet, but rumour has spread that Gellert Grindelwald, German tycoon, suspect of-"_

Hermione droned out, Tonks' words coming back to her. 

 _"We suspect foul play, and I'm talking to a few of the girls in the chances that it'll lead somewhere._ Do you understand?"

She'd picked up on the question, admittedly confused as to why there was something hidden away in the detective's words. The newscaster bid viewer's goodbye, and Hermione wordlessly carried herself back to her sofa and turned the television off. It fell into place suddenly, the pieces of her jigsaw lining up. Why the detective wanted to know about her relationship with clients, how she felt about the switch in management, if there was anything she could tell her- even if it didn't  _seem_  important.

McGonagall had turned up dead, and Tonks' hadn't hidden the fact that she believed it murder.  

 _"If you_ talk  _to someone-"_

_"-be careful, okay?"_

Perhaps it wasn't Grindelwald behind these murders. Perhaps there was a reason that Tonks had chosen to come visit  _her_  after finding the body, on a goddamn Sunday of all days.

Who did she know, who did she entertain, that had recently come to mean nothing but trouble? 

It was certain to her then, that it wasn't just Hermione and her friends whom had come to notice the conspicuous meetings and the cash exchanged under tables.

 _Mystique_  was being watched, and there was no doubt in her mind that Tonks knew Fenrir Greyback was Hermione's newest, suspicious regular. 

“Fuck me,” she whispered.

 

-

 

Tuesday came much quicker than anticipated, and at nine o'clock Hermione was sitting at her vanity in the change room and staring at her reflection.

She hadn't touched the business card, merely leaving it on her table where it had been sitting innocently since Sunday afternoon. She wanted to throw it out and be done with whatever antics the club was causing, but when she went to grab it, she couldn't help but think about McGonagall's sour old face. This, of course, usually followed with a pang of guilt or sadness. She supposed she owed it to the old woman to call and tell the detective the truth, as McGonagall had given her the chance to make some money and turn her life around. 

Of course, It was all well and dandy to say these things inside her head, but no matter how much she pondered Hermione couldn't bring herself to actually act on them. 

She had yet to discuss it with Ginny or Luna, as the peculiar news was something she wanted to deliver in person. If she was right (she was, always) then Tonks knew what was going on at  _Mystique_  and had been watching it from afar. Who knows if they had tapped her phone? It certainly wouldn't be the strangest thing that had happened to her over the last seventy-six hours. The paranoia followed her through Monday and Tuesday morning, until she had locked herself in her room, frustrated, with books that demanded attention and refused to walk by the little piece of card that sat on her table when she left her haven for food.  

"Did you have a good weekend?" Lavender flounced upstairs and sunk into Ginny's vanity stool, admittedly spooking Hermione a bit. She jumped, and Lavender laughed. 

"My days off were fabulous," she said dryly. She didn't enjoy being sardonic to people, but with everything that had happened, the last person she wanted speaking to her was  _Lavender_. If she wanted to sit upstairs in the change room for a minute and wholeheartedly just be herself, without having to bond or laugh with clients, then who was Lavender to come and ruin that? 

She knew she wasn't thinking straight, but she didn't care in the slightest. 

She got started on her make-up, feeling like the girl beside her was about to burst with useless information. 

"I haven't stopped since Saturday," Lavender said frantically. "I don't know how the rest of you girls do it, I feel like the club is getting busier and busier and we just don't have enough people to keep the crowds going. We had fifteen on Saturday, which isn't enough if you ask  _me_ , but then on Sunday we barely had ten! I swear I feel like girls keep coming and going... There was definitely a lot more people when I first started."

Hermione didn't know why this was upsetting Lavender. The girl struggled with the hustle, and had always been a bit difficult to work with- so why was she so concerned about lack of competition? 

"What's the problem then, Lavender?" she snapped. 

_You have to stop doing that._

Lavender froze, and then Hermione turned to face her while the other girl fiddled with the sequins on her bra. She exhaled, a bit more forceful than intended, and gave the girl an apologetic half-smile. "I'm sorry, Lav," she said, honestly, "I've had a rough few days." 

"Well, that's okay I suppose," she sniffed, "I wanted to talk to you actually, in private," Hermione's heart sped up instantaneously, "What about?" 

Lavender's blue eyes were wide and searching as she scanned Hermione's face. "I saw that man the other night," she said, and Hermione blinked.

"You saw a man... in our strip club," she said slowly, eyebrows raising to her hairline. Lavender bristled and then grabbed a hold of both of Hermione's hands, pulling her in close until their noses were almost touching. "No," she breathed, "I saw  _your_  man." Hermione shrunk back, still confused as Lavender's grip on her wrists shackled her forward uncomfortably on her stool. There could only be one possibility of who the girl meant, but Hermione didn't want to entertain that thought. She'd had enough antics. 

"Lavender, you have to be more spec-,"

 _"Greyback!"_  she shrieked in a harsh whisper, sending Hermione's head scanning all directions around them for possible eavesdroppers. "The hairy one, the one we talked about, remember?" Lavender's hands felt too hot, and Hermione reeled back. "I don't doubt he has other girls," she lied too quickly, feeling her previous attitude seeping back in at hearing the man's name. 

The man, whom she suspected, had murdered Minerva McGonagall. 

_I can't believe I'm thinking this, but I hope you're wrong Hermione!_

"I didn't see him at the club," Lavender was seething now, and Hermione blinked, marvelled at how blatantly the girl wasn't holding back. This was a different Lavender. "I was leaving the other morning and he was outside in one of the alleys around the corner, talking to this guy- looked equally gross, in my opinion, but that's beside the  _point_ -," Lavender could have kissed her, she was so close. "He was arguing with him, 'Mione. He punched him, and I left because I was scared. Don't you see?" 

Hermione wasn't surprised, but she couldn't help the brief acceleration in her breathing and the way her energy pooled in her legs- ready to send her running far away from Lavender and back to the safety of her bedroom.  

"He's not...  _good_ , Hermione." 

Lavender released her, recovering quite quickly from the brief interruption in her usual bubbly demeanour. 

"I feel like I'm the only one who's noticed this place isn't all it's made out to be," Lavender lent back, her eyes shooting to the ceiling as she whispered woefully more to herself than Hermione. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, "No you aren't, idiot," she sat upright, taking the time to glance around and make sure the other girls on shift were still pre-occupied before continuing, "you need to be more quiet about this," she spat, "I don't know what you've seen, but you can't talk about this here. I need to tell you something," she shackled her hand around Lavender's wrist and pulled her towards the spiral staircase and down and out towards the back door.

The courtyard towards the back of the property served as private quarters for the girls to smoke, and was only accessible from behind a veiled curtain that Hagrid regularly patrolled. There was one girl outside, scrolling dreamily on her phone as she puffed at her cigarette. Hermione didn't have time for this, and she compiled all of her anger into one, seething statement that caused Lavender to choke and stare in shock.  

"Beat it."

With a terrified look at Hermione's wild eyes and wilder hair, the girl threw her cigarette over her shoulder and scrammed back into the club, muttering under her breath heatedly. 

The outside air felt fresh and welcome in her lungs- sending her anger spiralling away quickly. Lavender looked rattled, jaw opening and closing. "Herm-," she tried to muster together a coherent sentence, and Hermione shut her eyes to relax. 

"Lavender," she started, a lot calmer. She pressed her back against the grimy door to make sure none of the club’s occupants could come outside and overhear. With a sigh, she unleashed the inevitable. 

_I hope you're doing the right thing, Hermione._

"There's something you need to know." 

Hermione launched into a heated recollection of the weekend's events, stopping only to take harsh intakes of breath and then resume spewing her theories about the club. She mentioned the brief case, McGonagall's murder, and the visit from Detective Tonks and her questions about the club's management. Lavender had taken a seat on a concrete slab, juxtaposing the miserable grey outdoors with her glitter and her bouncy, fresh curls. She didn't stop to ask questions, which although surprised Hermione, was causing her just as much confusion.

It wasn't like Lavender to sit and listen obediently, and it only fed her growing anxiety about the club's mysteries. She'd read plenty of novels in her life, and definitely hadn't skimmed on her crime thrillers. The novels, albeit entertaining, were only fiction- serving purpose only to scratch her need for adventure and story-telling. Knowing that there was something very real broiling underneath the lights and the glamour of  _Mystique_  made her feel entirely different. It scared her. 

If she could leave without causing suspicion, while keeping in contact with Ginny and Luna, she would need a new club and have to fight through ranks to earn respect. That was a big if, seeming too unmanageable at the given time. She focused mindfully on the rise and fall of her chest, wishing that when she finished college all those years ago she hadn't wandered into Downtown. 

_Stop thinking too much. It'll be okay._

"Ginny and Luna, do they know too?" Lavender's eyes were saucers, taking in Hermione against the door as if she had just popped out of thin air. Hermione shook her head regrettably. She couldn't believe it was Lavender that she was telling first. 

The girl in front of her hyperventilated until she begun to hold her belly, acrylics digging into the flesh of her abdomen. "I feel sick," she spluttered. 

Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy, and sighed raggedly. "I know. I just didn't want you going around and telling everybody the things you've seen. The last thing I want is for you to tell the wrong person," she gulped, thoughts of Lavender floating lifelessly along the Chicago river infesting her. 

Lavender shook her head, tears finally springing free from her eyes. "This must be why girls have been leaving," she sobbed, "Hannah left a couple weeks ago, barely said anything to her, and I  _still_  felt awful about it!" her nose dripped onto the pavement and makeup ran down her cheeks as she cried, and Hermione winced at the volume, praying nobody inside could hear. 

Then, Hermione felt cold all over. 

"Lavender," she hesitated, "how many girls did you say have left?" 

Lavender blubbered through her hands, shaking her head. "I didn't!" she cried, and then through her tears erupted into a fit of coughing. 

Greyback's golden orbs flickered in front of her, her mouth dry and jaw slack. 

 _"-be careful, okay?"_  Tonks had smiled when she said it.

She stammered at Lavender, asking her to keep quiet about what they'd discussed, and turned to leave. She managed to open the door with a shaky hand, leaving the blubbering mess behind her and stalked back up the spiral staircase. 

Thoughts swam around, and with a shaky breath she acknowledged them. 

Perhaps she wasn't Greyback's  _first_  regular. 

 

-

 

Tuesday night dragged along after her discussion with Lavender. She watched one of the girls sinking down the stage pole and felt like she was watching paint dry. 

After Lavender had sulked for a bit, Hermione spied her sneaking back into the depths of the club and dabbing at her eye make-up. Parvati had noticed her as well, and had made an absolute bee-line to whisk her up the spiral stairs to no doubt comfort her closest friend at the club. She hoped Lavender wouldn't say anything stupid. Hermione stayed by the bar for most of the night, as the club lacked substantially in customers. 

Severus was working, but he wasn't nearly as rushed as he was on Saturday. He lent against his cabinets, cloth draped over one of his shoulders as he waited for business. Hermione couldn't help but feel jealous, even though his tip jar only contained a measly dollar bill. 

While he didn't nearly make as much as Hermione on a good night, Severus and the other house staff were exempt from house fees and were paid an hourly wage. Hermione didn't have that luxury, and she couldn't help but think that it would be nice to have as she sipped on her fourth margarita of the night, knowing that she always started her shift forty dollars short the minute she walked past Hagrid. She wasn't a big drinker, usually, not like some of the other girls who couldn't work sober. But tonight she had well and truly given up, and she deserved, no,  _needed_ , a pity party. The atmosphere of the club was idling. Energy had depleted itself entirely from her body, and the alcohol was singeing her chest and cheeks as she sipped.

An hour ago she'd completed her stage, and made a  _bit_  of money- but not nearly enough to make any sort of profit. 

Breathing the air in  _Mystique_  felt like a poisonous fume that was going to slowly kill her. With a sigh, she decided to tie a ball and chain to her recollection of Greyback and the oddity of Tonks' visit, and threw it to the bottom of her subconscious. If she could have waved goodbye, she would have.  

_Just let it go. Just for tonight._

As for Lavender's words, she hadn't yet given up. She didn't know much about Hannah, the one whom Lavender was upset about, but she knew enough to confidently say that Hannah was a little timid and tended to keep to herself.  _Where did the others go? How many girls have quit, and why?_

Something wasn't right, and she didn't like not knowing.

She was about to nudge Severus for a little more liquid courage (money be damned, at this point), when a man materialised at her side and she immediately forced herself out of her tipsy, depressed stupor to entertain. 

_Why couldn't you have come up a few hours earlier? I was a lot less drunk then._

"I would offer to buy you another one, but I can see that you've had enough." 

She turned her head at the blatantly  _rude_  remark, ready to tear the man apart when anger bubbled up through her chest. 

_So this is how my night is going to go. First Lavender, now this._

She noticed a spidery, alabaster hand gesture to her collection of empty glasses and watched as it then thrummed out a pattern over the glass of the bar. She followed the arms, tucked away in a well-pressed suit jacket, until she felt a hum of recognition and she was  _sure_  the colours drained from her face. The man from Saturday was standing next to her, towering over the bar (and Hermione), wearing the most upsettingly handsome smile she'd seen only through the shadows around the stage as he snatched her tip.

 _Well, he gave it_ back...

She held her breath, and froze to the edge of the bar, still angry. She wasn't seeing any pistol now, but she had no doubt it was still on his person. 

_"Have you by any chance seen anything around the club? Anything unusual at all?"_

She'd decided, in that moment, that enough was enough. The alcohol was getting to her. 

"I'll decide when I've had enough, thank you," she huffed, "I appreciate the offer, all the same," she then lied, grumbling. She very much felt like curling up and going to sleep on the floor. 

_I'm a lot drunker than I thought._

"I'm sure you do."

It wasn't particularly nice, the way he said it. It wasn't mean, either, but it left a sour taste in her mouth. His eyes were darker than they had been through the haze of the neon’s, and if she admitted to staring (which she didn't), then she had noticed that instead of the all-consuming indigo present on Saturday, all his eyes were now were an abyss of more black than blue. He didn't seem unhappy with her response, which deterred her a bit from taking his comment and letting him have it.

His smile was still there, sticking to his angular face in a delicious way. It gave her chills, but not the good kind. 

"Tell me your name," it wasn't a question, and for some reason, she decided she wouldn't have expected him to phrase it like one. 

"Hermione," she felt herself answer immediately, wincing after realising she hadn't stopped staring.

Lee was calling another girl on to the stage, and she could see the chandelier that hung from the ceiling, blinking dimly against the dark.

It was barely illuminated, dull against the abyss of the club and glowing even less in each mirrored reflection around her. The dark was threatening to diminish its existence, and it was  _exactly_  how she felt. Drunk, unprepared and overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the club, overwhelmed by the invisible weapon she could sense tucked away at the man's hip, and the way he had edged a tad closer to make room for somebody on his right. She was aware of Severus' drawl and how he had started to pour and mix his alcohol for the other customer, not paying an ounce of attention to Hermione or the man next to her. 

She forgot her anger then, allowing it to fizzle out of her body while she waited for him to introduce himself, and she realised eventually that she'd have to pry for it. 

He studied the planes of her face, still thrumming his fingers. He wasn't smiling anymore, in fact, he wasn't really doing anything with his face. It was still, like a picture. 

"What's _your_ name?" she asked, desperate to hide the way the words tumbled out in a slur. The drinks seemed like a good idea at the time, but now in the presence of the towering man, she wished that she had stopped at just one. He wasn't grabbing at her, or kissing her cheek (usually an unwelcome gesture), or behaving like any other customer she'd expect. There was at least ten inches between them, if she estimated, and it was still far too close for her liking.

Even though she was hyper-aware of her draining bank account, she found herself with no wish to continue prodding the man in order to secure cash, and fell, defeated, against the bar. Weapon or no weapon, she found that she suddenly didn't care how drunk she was or if he had aroused any suspicion in her on Saturday. 

Brief case or no brief case, he could be damned to Hell. 

Turning back to Severus, she gestured for another drink. The greasy man supplied her with another wordlessly, eyes training from her to her empty glasses incredulously. 

"Why do you need to know?" the man beside her asked, finally turned his whole body towards her. She rolled her eyes openly, and the alcohol in her blood would have smirked in satisfaction. 

" _Why do you need to know?_ " she mocked in a pseudo-masculine voice, "if you're taking me for a dance, I'll need to call you something." 

She thought about Greyback then, and how she had asked him the very same thing, only to be turned away and brushed over like a speck on his silk shirt. Her throat turned dry, and she took a hearty sip from her new drink. 

_"If you talk to someone-"_

"If  _you_  want me to take you for a dance," he said suddenly, "I will."

Not leaving his eyes, she had a sudden compulsion to down the rest of her drink. It flushed hotly through her chest, and she had no doubt that she'd need it for whatever she was about to get herself into.

_Just walk away._

_He's bad news._

He blinked, eyes shooting between her and her glass. Whatever he was thinking was dismissed, and he pulled her away from the bar and towards the VIP rooms, one hand ghosting on her back.

"You can call me Tom," he murmured against her ear.

In that moment, she melted. It terrified her, and she thought that she would have taken his concealed gun and shot the nearest person if he had asked her to. 

She swallowed thickly, beginning small talk and feigning interest.

_What are you doing, Hermione?_

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters here within. All rights reserved to J.K Rowling. Film material is trademarked by Warner Brothers. I do not own Coldplay's lyrics.

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters here within. All rights reserved to J.K Rowling. Film material is trademarked by Warner Brothers. I do not own Dead Man's Bones' lyrics!!!


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